


You Wanna Talk About It?

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Swearing, red team - Freeform, some fluff i suppose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: Simmons reminisces while he waits for Grif to wake up from surgery.Or-Simmons remembers when Grif caught him punching the mirror.





	You Wanna Talk About It?

**Author's Note:**

> For the Red vs. Blue Bingo Wars. For Red Team's "Hurt/Comfort" square.

It was never a question. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation, a second thought, regret. Chalk it up to obedience, if you want, or plain old scientific curiosity. Whatever you wanted to accuse him of, Richard Simmons was not about to let Dexter Grif die.

Grif needed his arm? Done. His lungs? Fucking take them. If becoming a cyborg (and let’s be real here, Simmons was not totally devastated by the idea) meant Grif lived, then Simmons was more than willing to do it. And so, he did.

Surgery was a nightmare, of course. Not that Sarge wasn’t a skilled… something. It’s just that he was one person. Donut had just cowered in the corner, and Lopez had been MIA. But he did it, because he was Sarge, and for some reason all his convoluted plans seemed to work out in the end.

Once his organs and body parts had been transplanted and replaced, Simmons stood watch over Grif while Donut held his hand. Grif was not going to be pleased about that.

Sarge left to sleep almost immediately after the procedure was finished, mentioning something, and even Donut started to nod off. But Simmons was surprised to discover that, despite having had surgery, he felt more awake and alert than he had his entire life. Which was saying something, for someone so high-strung.

Simmons tried to pinpoint the exact moment he knew. When had he decided he would do anything for the dumbass passed out before him, even if it meant letting Sarge to rip him apart and rebuilding him? His loyalty to Sarge aside, Simmons was super fucking sure that if Grif’s life wasn’t at stake, he wouldn’t let the madman anywhere near his internal organs.

Simmons thought back to basic training in Danger Canyon.

_I’m Grif, by the way_. _And I think this is the start of a singularly beneficial relationship where you get me out of all these stupid boot camp drills._

Simmons smirked despite the twinge of annoyance he felt at the memory. No, that probably wasn’t it. In fact, he distinctly recalled wanting to shove Grif off the bridge for making him look down.

Simmons looked over at Grif. It was hard to believe the hand Donut was holding used to be his. His stomach churned as he took in the raised white scars, one on each knuckle. Damaged goods.

He remembered then. When he knew.

One night, when they were first transferred to Blood Gulch, Simmons had a particularly ugly nightmare. No monsters or snakes or people blowing up or anything like that. He would have given all his Dungeons and Dragons kits to have normal nightmares like that.

No, Simmons’s nightmares were memories. Screams and shattered bottles and slammed doors. And when Simmons resurfaced, he was drenched in sweat, legs tangled in his sheets, cheeks stained with drying tears.

Hyperventilating, he scrambled out of bed, tried to run from the dream. He ended up in the bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink like he was about to be blown off the planet. But Simmons wasn’t able to shake the nightmare, the voices still echoing over and over in his head like a broken record.

_Worthless. Weak. Waste of fucking space_.

An overwhelming combination of anger and panic welled up inside him, building and writhing until, letting out a frustrated wail, Simmons slammed his fist into the mirror. He heard the satisfying crack, followed by several staccato rings as shards of mirror rained down into the sink. Pulling his hand away, Simmons gave the wall a kick for good measure.

“The fuck?”

Whirling around, Simmons slipped and begun to stumble backwards. He would have fallen into the sink if Grif hadn’t grabbed him by the collar of his pajama shirt and yanked him forward.

“Dude.” Was all Grif said.

“Uh, hey, Grif,” Simmons squawked, his voice shooting up an octave. “I, uh. Slipped?”

“I see that,” Grif snorted. “Did your fist slip into the mirror too?”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, okay, Simmons.” Grif rolled his eyes. “Come on.”

“Wh-what?”

“You have a shit ton of glass in your hand, and I’m not about to be kept all night with your whining,” Grif explained, leading Simmons from the bathroom.

“Oh.” Simmons had yet to feel anything in his hand. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

In an awkward silence generally filled with their trivial banter, the pair of them made their way to the kitchen. Lopez had hidden the first aid kit from Sarge behind the freezer ( _The only medicine we need_ _is the sweet, sweet taste of victory!_ ). Grif led the way, hand still clamped around his wrist. Simmons let him, inspecting the tattoos up and down the groggy soldier’s arms. He realized, with a pang of guilt, that he’d never asked Grif about them. Not that the orange soldier was one for sharing.

When they reached the kitchen, Grif motioned for Simmons to sit at the table, cluttered with blueprints and attack strategies. Judging by the sheer amount of them, Sarge had had a late night too. Simmons wondered if the red soldier was still awake and on the prowl. He fucking hoped not.

Grif pulled the first aid kit from its hiding place and sauntered over. Flopping into the chair next to Simmons, he opened the first aid kit and began to rummage through it, producing bandages, antiseptic, and some tweezers.

Simmons flinched. If he wasn’t feeling the pain in his hand now, he would be in a few seconds.

“Hand,” Grif demanded.

“What?” Simmons looked up from the tweezers to ogle Grif.

“Gimme your hand, idiot,” he said.

“W-why? I can do it,” Simmons stammered. Grif rolled his eyes.

“Have you seen yourself, Simmons?” He huffed. “You’re shaking so fucking much, you’ll stab yourself with the goddamn tweezers. Now,” Grif thrust his hand across the table, “Give me. Your hand.”

Without another word, Simmons held out his injured hand, palm up. In the dim light the blood looked black. Grif took Simmons’s hand and flipped on the table lamp. He turned the bloody hand over, inspecting the knuckles with a look on his face Simmons had never seen before.

Serious. The dumbass was serious.

Eyes narrow, chewing on his bottom lip, Grif looked like he was performing surgery.

Then he grabbed the tweezers and went to work.

“FUCK!” Simmons howled, resisting the urge to yank his hand away.

“Shut up, Simmons, you’re gonna wake Sarge up,” Grif complained, not looking up from his work.

Simmons bit his tongue and watched Grif work.

Twenty minutes, thirteen ‘shit’s’, and four ‘fuck my life’s’ later, Grif and Simmons sat at the table munching Oreos.

“Where did you even get these?” Simmons asked, washing down his last Oreo with the strawberry YooHoo they were sharing.

“I’ve got connections,” Grif said with a shrug.

“Like… what?”

Grif glanced at Simmons out of the corner of his eye. “I’m a man of honor, Simmons. If I tell you my connections, then you’ll tell Sarge, and then the whole jig is up.”

“I wouldn’t tell Sarge!” Simmons cried, crossing his arms.

“Puh- _lease_ ,” Grif snorted. “Like you wouldn’t _jump_ at the chance to kiss his ass.”

“Hey, I didn’t tell him about your hiding spots, did I?” Simmons pointed out.

“Touché.” Grif paused, leaned in conspiratorially. “I can’t tell you who, but I can tell you where.”

“Where, then?” Simmons tilted his head towards Grif.

“The Vegas Quadrant,” Grif whispered.

“Fuck you, Grif,” Simmons huffed, crossing his arms. A jolt of pain laced through his hand and up his arm. “OW, _fuck_!”

Raising an eyebrow, Grif asked. “You wanna talk about it?”

Simmons grimaced. “About what? How I tripped into the mirror? Big deal.”

“Yeah, whatever, you clumsy nerd,” Grif sighed. Standing up, he added, “I’m gonna go back to bed. There’s only three hours until dawn. Coming?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” Simmons answered. He stared at the bandage wrapped around his hand. It was actually… Perfect. Not too tight, not too loose. “Hey, Grif?”

“Yeah?”

“Um... Thanks.”

“Sure. Yeah. No problem.” Grif shrugged. He looked off to the side, embarrassed by the praise. “Well, g’night.”

Grif ambled out of the kitchen, tossing the empty package of Oreos as he went. Simmons watched him go. He had an odd feeling in his gut, and a sudden urge to sprint laps around the canyon.

Grif had Simmons’s heart long before it was given to him.

“Hey, Simmons!”

Simmons, startled back to the present, nearly tripped and fell off the top of the base. Donut was waving frantically at him, beckoning him over.

“I think he’s waking up,” Donut chimed.

Simmons looked down at Grif, who was, sure enough, beginning to stir. It had only been three hours since the surgery. Simmons marveled at how quickly the healing unit had worked. Ah, the miracles of modern technology.

Sarge appeared, stomped over to where Grif lay, and leaned over him expectantly. Then, appearing to realize he was being watched, leaned away, crossed his arms, and _harrumphed_.

“Can’t even die right,” he grumbled.

Simmons and he felt his eyes start to burn. Blinking frantically, Simmons sidled over to his teammates. He was _not_ going to _cry_ in front of _Sarge_. Grif would never let him live it down. Or maybe not… the fatass owed him for sure.

Maybe now, Grif would tell him who he got the Oreos from.


End file.
